Black Nights
by Hecate's Heiress
Summary: It is said that the very blood coursing through the veins of the Blacks has been tainted with madness. That is, perhaps, why the Wizarding World shouldn't have expected to silence them for long. Determined to forge their own path in a world strictly divided between Light and Dark, determined to return to power, determined to restore their family, the Blacks have returned for good.
1. Prologue

Copyright notice: The "Harry Potter" world belongs to J. K. Rowling. I make no money from this.

 **Prologue**

Sirius softly traced the tapestry before him. He hadn't seen it in fifteen years. Fifteen long, dark years. Yet vivid memories flooded his mind with an intensity he hadn't expected when he ran his hand down the branches of the family tree, over the names of people who used to live in this ghoulish house, now long gone. His mother, his father, his brother - all dead. Somehow Sirius couldn't bring himself to mourn them, to feel anything but apathy. Why should he? They had meant little to him, and he was well aware he had meant even less to them. Only a rough black burn mark by the trunk caught his eye. He dragged his hand over the tapestry to touch it, letting his fingers linger on the faded name.

Andromeda. His favourite cousin. His only light as a child in a home of hatred and supremacy, his once dearest friend. What had become of her?

A heavy sigh escaped the convict's lips. How much he had lost... Bitterness overcame him as old memories resurfaced. Memories of the ambitions he once had, memories of Lily and his beloved godson, memories of James and Remus and their days at Hogwarts. Of James and Remus _and the rat_. He shook his head in revulsion, swallowing the rage that was building up in him.

The ceaseless desire for revenge made him restless. Almost a decade he had spent, waiting, planning, drowning in the nightmarish thoughts the Dementors would force into his mind. Revenge was all he had left. Yet somehow, for some reason, it didn't fulfil him. He wanted his life back. And this time, he would ensure that no one could take it away from him. Not the Ministry of Magic or the Dementors or even Dumbledore himself. If nothing else, he had been blessed and cursed with the Black blood that coursed through him. Seeking power came naturally to him.

Sirius took a few steps back. A cloud of dust arose from the creaking wooden floors. "Whatever happened to Kreacher?" he mused.

His voice sounded hoarse and awkward from lack of use. After a decade with no one but himself to talk to, it wasn't particularly surprising. "The little bastard probably hasn't cleaned this hellhole since my mother died."

The elf wasn't anywhere to be seen either. Had it died? Sirius snorted in a rather undignified manner. He wouldn't have been the least bit upset to hear of Kreacher's death.

Slowly pacing around the drawing room, he took the time to observe all the small details that once horrified him. They still did, but a decade in prison had dulled his emotions. He felt very little, if anything at all – numbness and exhaustion tended to dominate these days.

Grimmauld Place had always been gloomy and unwelcoming, but empty as it was, it felt all the more depressing. Sirius sighed for the umpteenth time since he turned the lock on the front door earlier that evening. Should he write to someone? Remus, perhaps? Or Andromeda? Neither of them knew of his innocence, and he wasn't yet sure how to explain his story. He would have owled Dumbledore to ask about his godson, but the old Headmaster was the very last person Sirius wished to hear from. He had lost much of the vigour and optimism he had possessed as a young man, and with that he had also lost his faith in the Light's leader, who had left him to rot in prison without the slightest concern, without even dignifying him with a trial.

Harry would be starting Hogwarts that year, Sirius realised painfully. Ten years gone by… Wasted. Would the boy still remember him? Would he even care to? How would he reach him? Sirius was sharp enough to know without a doubt the Minister for Magic would not have allowed the Boy-Who-Lived to be raised by a registered werewolf and that Dumbledore, although tolerant towards the supposedly dark creatures, would not have willingly handed Harry over to Remus.

Quickly making up his mind, Sirius retreated to his late father's office – he had several important letters to write.

The office was just as he remembered it. A heavy desk of cherry stood in front of a large bookcase, the shelves full of endless tomes on subjects mundane and harmless enough that they didn't require to be hidden in the library. The desk itself was cluttered with decade-old parchments and photographs – a sight highly unusual in the office of the tidy and organised Lord Black. Sirius couldn't help but wonder at that. The fireplace hadn't been cleaned either, wood and ash lay on the dusty grate behind carefully engraved stone walls.

Sirius sat on the soft Victorian chair for the first time in his life – he had never been allowed to do so as a child, not even his mother had had access to her husband's beloved office. The inkwells on the desk had dried up and the quills were nearly featherless. There was no spare parchment to be found either. The new Lord Black unsheathed the wand he had stolen from a guard during his escape, ready to conjure the materials he needed. He was soon distracted by the pictures strewn on the cherry surface. Most of them portrayed two smiling young boys in expensive-looking robes, two boys with locks of thick black hair that fell over their pale foreheads and into their grey eyes, two boys that looked so innocent and happy, there was no possible way they could indeed be Blacks.

Sirius scowled. Had his father regained the few shreds of compassion he had once had before his death? Or had Regulus become sentimental after Sirius had run away?

There was no way of knowing. And frankly, Sirius told himself, he didn't care to know. These days were behind him.

The wand was still in his hand, he realised. He quickly conjured ink and parchment and set himself to work. The first letter was to be sent to Remus, the second to Andromeda, the third to McGonagall – although they were never particularly close, she was a reasonable woman and, despite her stern behaviour, Sirius could tell she had always held him dear. She would believe him. Unthinkingly, unwittingly, he moved his quill over to a fourth piece of parchment.

 _Dear Bellatrix_ ,

He furrowed his brow, confused by his own actions. What was he doing? Bellatrix had always been his least favourite family member, perhaps short only of his mother. Yet an instinctive feeling told him to continue.

 _I am writing to you from my childhood home. I cannot explain to you in writing what has happened since I was taken away, but I am free now, and I plan on restoring the House of Black. Not for a seat in the Wizengamot or a say in pureblood politics, but for the sake of our safety. We must stand united in these trying times. Please accept my request to meet in the following days, there is a lot I have to tell you. I need your help, and after certain events, I think you would benefit from mine too._

 _I look forward to seeing you._

 _Your cousin,  
Sirius  
(Lord of the Noble and most Ancient House of Black)_

He didn't quite understand why he was writing a letter to the woman who had intimidated him throughout his entire childhood, who had tortured him verbally and even physically. But seeing Rodolphus being dragged into Azkaban had sparked a certain emotion in him, one he could not pinpoint.

Perhaps it was remorse for abandoning his friends and family when they most needed him. Perhaps it was fury at having their lives dictated by Wizarding society. Perhaps it was just relief at seeing a familiar face in his living, waking nightmare behind steel bars, even if it had been one of his least favourite people.


	2. Unwanted Letters

**Chapter I  
Unwanted Letters**

Three days.

Three days had gone by since Sirius had sent out his letters. And only Remus had yet to reply. It would be hardly surprising if his friend still resented him for the mistake that had been made ten years ago. The mistake that had, after all, caused the death of their closest friends. Sirius had written a long, winded letter, explaining in the greatest detail what had transpired on that fateful, terrible 31st of October – Remus would have never listened to him otherwise. To believe the story, however, was solely up to him; there was nothing more Sirius could do.

His chest ached at the very thought of Remus's resentment. "You're all I have left, Moony," he mumbled to himself. "Don't abandon me." A heavy sigh broke the deafening silence that had befallen the old house. He cursed the day he had met the filthy rat on the Hogwarts Express back in 1971, he cursed himself, he cursed Voldemort, he cursed the world. He cursed his own ideas, which had been so obscenely foolish that rage surged through him at the memory.

"Changing Secret Keeper," he spat in a voice filled with hate and remorse. "What was I thinking?"

The ragged convict was violently jerked from his self-deprecating thoughts by a loud noise, a sound like a whip. He knew that sound well – the Blacks' blood wards had been crossed. Someone had come.

Sirius slowly crept through the dark, dusty hallways. Thin and malnourished, with his father's old robes hanging loosely from his bony shoulders, he easily blended in with the ever-present shadows of Grimmauld Place. He must truly be a pitiful sight, he realised. He hadn't thought of looking in the mirror during the few days he had been hiding in his childhood home, but he could only imagine the sunken eyes that would stare back at him. The scarred, sallow skin and matted hair, the scraggly beard and the dirty, broken fingernails. He had always prided himself in his handsomeness as a young man, and he had frequently used it to his advantage. Now he looked every bit the deranged criminal the world thought him to be.

"Sirius? Where are you?"

His breath hitched at the sound of the familiar voice. It was so comforting, so relieving to be called by name instead of by a number, to be addressed by a real human being of flesh and blood instead of a mouldy, evil wraith. It made him feel a warmth he had long since forgotten.

"Andromeda?"

He slowly lowered the wand he had unsheathed just moments ago. No one could enter Black property unless the wards accepted their magical signature – their Black blood. It had to be Andromeda.

He made his way towards the drawing room, where he supposed he'd find the source of the voice. As he'd thought, he came face to face with his cousin for the first time in years when he reached the stone arch. She hadn't changed. Her dark brown hair still fell in ringlets down her back, and her blue eyes held the same calculating, intelligent quality to them. Much like Sirius, Andromeda often chose to deny she was indeed a Black. And much like Sirius, her heritage was betrayed by her high cheekbones and long, thin nose, which gave her an air of patrician beauty.

"You came." He sounded surprised, even to himself. He hadn't expected his cousin to give him a second chance so quickly after believing him to have betrayed both their principles and followed in their family's footsteps.

She nodded slowly. "You look terrible," she said.

"Thanks," Sirius replied, laughing. He couldn't help it. Standing in the gloomy old house which he had so passionately hated all his life, with his beloved cousin, made him feel oddly amused. Hysterical, even. "You still look great."

Andromeda's lips twitched upwards. "Enough," she said, her demeanour once again stern. "Sirius, I demand an explanation. And Merlin help me if you don't have a good one, because I _will_ drag you back to Azkaban myself."

So he explained. About Pettigrew, about the trial he was never given, about using his Animagus form to keep his sanity in Azkaban, about finally building up the will and courage to escape as the Grim, so dark and thin that he lurked in the shadows and went unnoticed until he reached the sea.

"It was all set up," she whispered finally. Shock flashed in her eyes. Then fury, then finally a deep sadness. "It was all intentional."

"What?"

"Someone wanted you out of the way, Sirius. There are still Death Eaters roaming freely around Wizarding Britain, having been found supposedly innocent. Yet for your imprisonment, it seems only a few Muggle's testimonies were needed." Andromeda had always loved a good puzzle. And this was a puzzle she'd have to solve. There were, however, more important thing to tend to first. "How long have you been living in here? Where's Kreacher? Have you even eaten anything?"

Sirius smiled at the woman who had taken care of him all his life, even as a young girl. She'd heal him when his mother cursed and hexed him, she'd secretly send him treats from Hogsmeade when she went off to Hogwarts, she'd given him everything.

"I'll be fine," he said. "I wrote to Bellatrix too, I can't say why. I hope you don't mind."

Andromeda offered him a soft smile. "I'm sure you'd like to see your son after all these years."

Sirius didn't quite register his cousin's words. "My son is dead." He spoke bluntly. "He and Marlene…" he choked, and left his sentence unfinished. He had, at one time, had a girl he dearly loved. And though they weren't married, Marlene had birthed his son on a cold March morning in 1980, just as the war was coming to its long-awaited end. Sirius, never one for a father's lifestyle, had felt pure bliss for the first time in his life. He'd fought in the Order with vigour, killed Death Eaters with mania, he'd kept a picture of his newborn son in his pocket at all times, retrieving it whenever he found himself in the company of anyone willing to listen about his child. For three months he had been happier than the world had ever seen him.

Until one dreadful Order meeting, when Dumbledore had sent him on a mission to raid Yaxley Manor. Two nights later he'd returned to James and Remus's strong embraces, to their promises that everything would be okay, their condolences and their sincerest sympathy. Marlene and Aries were dead.

"Marlene, yes," said Andromeda. "Carrow got her." She took a deep breath and motioned for Sirius to take a seat. How could he not know? "Bellatrix found Aries in a Muggle orphanage the following year. She told me and Narcissa, but no one else found out. Everyone simply assumed it was her son; no one would be surprised at her keeping her heir hidden, and no one questioned Dumbledore when he pronounced him dead. He's the spitting image of you, Sirius, and of course – of Bella, too."

Sirius felt numb. His ears were ringing and his body was frozen in place. He couldn't tell how long he had spent petrified on the dusty Victorian armchair, his thoughts spinning and racing wildly in his mind like a hurricane, his heart pounding hard enough to break through his ribcage, his breath stuck, his lungs feeling as though they were full of freezing water. He couldn't tell how much time had passed until he found the voice that had escaped him.

"Why?" he finally asked in a croaky voice. "Why would Dumbledore do that?" He remembered the utter despair and depression that had overcome him. He remembered his unwillingness to keep on living, up until Harry had been born.

"The Prophet said that's why you betrayed the Potters," Andromeda said. Venom seeped into her words. "You supposedly couldn't bear their happiness after losing your wife and son."

Sirius found it difficult to swallow. He dropped his head in his hands and wept. For Marlene, for his son, for the trust he had in Dumbledore, for the Potters... He didn't know what he was feeling, but it didn't matter. It was too much.

"What was Bellatrix doing in a Muggle orphanage?" he questioned as soon as he'd composed himself, wiping his face with a grimy sleeve.

"She was drawn to the boy, apparently. Black blood. We can sense each other from miles away, you know that."

Sirius nodded. The Blacks possessed ancient magic, passed down from generation to generation, which allowed them to sense danger in their family. That was why he had simply _felt_ it when Regulus had died, why Andromeda had known something was wrong before he had even reached Azkaban and, he assumed, why Bellatrix knew where to find the youngest Black.

"I let her keep him," Andromeda said softly. "She loved him, and for your sake, she even agreed to keep in touch with me and my Dora. The boy was in good condition every time I saw him, spoiled even. When he was young he harboured quite the dislike for Dumbledore, Muggleborns and the like, but after Rodolphus was imprisoned, she seemed to be steering him in a different direction."

Sirius frowned. Rodolphus had been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban in 1986, after murdering Charles Macmillan in an unexpected ambush. His brother Rabastan had gone down that path years ago for the torture of the Longbottom couple, along with Parkinson. What Sirius couldn't understand was how Bellatrix had changed so suddenly – by sixteen she was already a blood supremacist and dedicated follower of Voldemort. She couldn't suddenly be raising his – a blood traitor's – son without having some sort of hidden plan.

He voiced his concerns, and Andromeda sighed. "Bella was too proud to take the Mark after all," she explained. "She said Blacks were born to lead, not to serve. She still holds these views, of course… But family is family."

Sirius leaned back in his armchair. He couldn't wrap his mind around everything he had heard. "What does my son think of me?" he asked after a stretch of silence.

"He doesn't know much," Andromeda admitted in a soft voice. "He calls Bellatrix 'aunt', he knows you were in Azkaban but he doesn't seem to be scared or resentful. He's more curious than anything."

"I want to meet him," said Sirius. "Bellatrix said she'd be coming over this week."

"She has her own daughter too. Rodolphus' child. She doesn't seem to have inherited much of his personality though."

Sirius snorted. "He never had a personality to begin with." His weak attempt at a joke didn't make him feel remotely better.

Andromeda smiled sadly. "I'll bring Taffy tomorrow," she said, abruptly changing the subject. "He'll clean up a bit at least, you can't live in this mess until your name is cleared."

* * *

Remus stared at the letter he had received three days ago in bemusement. He had been staring at it for hours. And as eloquent a man he was considered to be, he was, for once in his life, at a complete loss for words. He simply couldn't understand, no matter how many times he read and reread it, how many glasses of Firewhiskey he poured himself, how many steps he took pacing through his shabby flat in search of an answer.

These three days he had made several pitiful attempts at replying, but every letter had ultimately ended up in his bin. Was Sirius really telling the truth? Was it even him writing the letter, or an impostor trying to lure him to his death? How could he be forgiven for blaming Sirius for ten years if the letter was indeed truthful?

 _If it's an impostor, he definitely did a remarkable job of copying Sirius's handwriting._

Remus bit his lip, deep in thought, and sat down at the rickety kitchen table with a pen and paper – after two years of unemployment, he could hardly afford parchment. The letter he wrote was short and devoid of emotion. Although he was by no means unfeeling, he was both unable and reluctant to express what he truly felt. He'd have to meet Sirius in person, and he'd have to be prepared.

What did Sirius know about Dumbledore? What did he know about Harry?

 _Harry…_

The memory of almost begging the Headmaster to let him raise his friend's son was still vivid, fresh in his mind.

"Remus, my boy," Dumbledore had said with a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, "don't you see how important it is for Harry to grow up away from the fame and glory? Petunia will take good care of him, I assure you."

He had seemed genuinely upset at Remus's desperation, but that hadn't changed his mind. How Remus wished it had…

He sighed and picked up the letter once again, for what must've been the seventh or eighth time that night. He had already memorised it, but that didn't stop him from reading it.

Until a second letter arrived.

Hastily untying it from the owl's talon, he made to rip open the envelope. It was sealed with deep red wax, on which a roaring lion stood proudly on its hind legs. Remus raised an eyebrow at the Gryffindor crest – who could the letter be from? He had graduated from Hogwarts fourteen years ago, and had had no correspondence with the school ever since.

The owl pecked impatiently at his finger. Remus smiled sadly, "I've got nothing to give you," he said softly. He could barely find something to eat himself; these days he mostly survived off canned food and whatever he could conjure. Although it was hardly an ideal situation, the young werewolf considered he was doing better than half a decade ago, when the only thing to be found in his cupboards was a permanently half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey, which was renewed at a faster pace than Remus was willing to admit to anyone.

He carefully opened the letter, unable to contain the curiosity that was building up inside him.

 _Dear Mr Lupin,_

 _I regret to disturb you at this hour. Unfortunately, the matter I am contacting you about is rather urgent. Professor Dumbledore has forbidden me from doing so, therefore I would be grateful if you could keep our correspondence a secret, however I believe it concerns you, and you have a right to know._

 _This morning, Harry Potter disappeared from his home. Professor Dumbledore refuses to contact the Order or the Ministry of Magic for fear of this problem being covered by the Daily Prophet. Such widespread chaos would be undesirable, as you can imagine. In the thirteen hours he has been missing, the Headmaster has been unable to track him. It is assumed the boy is being shielded by his accidental magic._

 _We have yet to find out whether Potter was forcefully removed, or left by his own conscious volition. A kidnapping is nevertheless unlikely; there was no action around his relatives' residence reported by the wards or by Arabella Figg._

 _I would advise you to keep your eyes open. Potter will be difficult to find as long as he makes himself undetectable. You are the only member of the Order I can contact, as such I will notify you as soon as we may search the premises or question Potter's relations._

 _Best regards,_

 _Minerva McGonagall_

Remus fell back into his wooden chair. Terror overcame him. Could Sirius Black have kidnapped Harry…?

No, McGonagall had said there was no reason to suspect a kidnapping. What could it be then? What could have possibly happened?

Remus hastily sent out a response thanking his old Head of House for the information. He had to meet with Sirius as soon as possible – if he was indeed still trustworthy, he would be a formidable ally in the search for his godson. If he wasn't, then Remus had every reason to suspect him.

Either way, he had a difficult time ahead of him.


	3. Fire

Note: Any reviews will be responded to via PM, thanks in advance if you take the time to comment on my work!

 **Chapter II  
Fire  
**

As she had promised, Andromeda returned to Grimmauld Place the following day, a wide-eyed house-elf staggering behind her. Sirius was stunned to see Nymphadora with her, no longer a bubbly toddler, but a grown woman that looked every inch a true Black. She was a living testimony of the time that had indeed passed while he had been alone in Azkaban, rotting, fading into a mere shadow of his former self. It was something he frequently forgot ever since his escape. He often felt as though time had frozen in the outside world while he'd been in his cell, listening to the same demented screams every day and dwelling on the same haunting thoughts that would echo in his mind. Yet he was discovering now that nothing was where he had left it.

Andromeda caught her daughter by her arm as she stumbled out of the Floo.

"So you're the famed Sirius Black?" There was an amused edge to her tone.

Sirius gazed at her bubble-gum pink hair, her tight-fitting Muggle clothes, her confident smirk, and was reminded of himself at that wondrous age of nineteen – a cocky, rebellious young man. A _boy_ , really, for he was just out of Hogwarts at the time, with only the vaguest idea of what fighting in a war meant. His fiercest battle at the time had been standing up to his mother and father. And though it had by no means been a small feat for someone with Walburga Black for a mother, he hadn't even begun to consider the danger or the injustice he would soon confront, the sheer horror and inhumaneness he would witness.

"At your service," he said, finally deciding to humour her. "Nymphadora Tonks, I believe?"

Her hair quickly turned to crimson. "Don't call me that. It's just Tonks."

The convict raised an eyebrow. "Come," he said, leading the two women into the kitchen. "Let's sit down."

"Taffy," said Andromeda, turning her attention to the elf. "Would you start cleaning the drawing room?"

With a bow, the small creature disappeared, leaving the three Blacks alone in the grimy kitchen. "I should probably look for Kreacher," Sirius said conversationally. "I do hope he's crawled up and died somewhere, but I doubt it."

The silence that fell after his comment was tense and uneasy, it felt as if someone had indeed died.

"I've started talking to Amelia Bones and Augusta Longbottom about your case," Andromeda said finally. "With Dora in the Auror office, we have an advantage. The sooner you're out of here, the sooner you can formally claim Lordship and see your son and godson."

Sirius sighed in relief at the news. "Thanks, Meda. There's not much I can do when I'm locked up in here. Hell, I wouldn't even be here if I could help it; I'd have run off to the continent, maybe even further. But I can hardly abandon my duties." He turned to Tonks. "You're already in the Auror Force?"

She laughed cheerily. "Technically," she said. "I'm still in training. With Mad-eye Moody of all people. I swear he was meant to retire a good decade ago, instead he's still in the office tormenting me."

Sirius chuckled in spite of himself. Mad-eye, he remembered, was the fiercest, most paranoid Auror, the most intimidating warrior any Death Eater could ever come across. A Slytherin with the heart of Godric Gryffindor himself, as McGonagall had once said.

"How did Mad-eye even agree to train you?" he asked with a twinkle in his sullen eyes. "I thought he only mentored the good ones."

As he dodged the stinging hex Tonks had thrown his way, Sirius carefully unsealed the long-awaited letter from Remus.

 _Dear Sirius,_

 _I reserve my judgment on whether to believe you or not. However, if you so insist, we may meet in the cave in Hogsmeade on the 16_ _th_ _at midday. Keep in mind, I will be prepared._

 _Remus Lupin_

A grunt of frustration escaped Sirius at the sight of the curt letter. _At least he had a chance._ He decided to hide it from his two guests, to which he returned his attention. "Dear, darling Bella is visiting later today with my son. Was about time too. I thought I'd warn you though, in case you want to leave before that happens."

Tonks smirked at him. "Why do you say that, cousin? Surely you can't be implying that my aunt is a deranged bitch and being stuck in a house with her requires warning."

Andromeda gasped. " _Nymphadora_! Have you no shame, speaking this way about your family?"

"Why should _I_ be ashamed? She's the one insulting us! Plus, she's really weird and you know it. And I've already told you, don't call me that."

Her mother sighed heavily. Bellatrix was by no means a tolerant woman. Associating with her after her marriage to Ted had been difficult at best; she'd intimidated Nymphadora, patronized Ted and brainwashed Aries. Many nights Andromeda found herself wondering why she ever even tried to maintain a relationship with her sisters. There was a reason why she had left her childhood home without so much as a goodbye, why Walburga had blasted her off that tapestry, why Sirius was the only relative she had loved with all her heart.

After Rodolphus's incarceration, things had begun looking up. Bellatrix, though still intimidating and haughty, showed a softer side, one Andromeda hadn't seen since childhood. One evening she'd even found her with a then fourteen-year-old Dora at the kitchen table, listening with rapt attention to her niece's Hogwarts tales, contrasting them with her own.

Andromeda had suspected Rodolphus immediately – he had always known he belonged to an inferior house, and as an individual, had few redeeming qualities. She wouldn't have put it past him to have used potions and incantations to ensure Bellatrix's loyalty out of some imprudent sense of insecurity. Unfortunately, magic had its consequences. And if Andromeda's suspicions held any measure of truth to them, Bellatrix had reacted quite badly to it.

The wards sounded unexpectedly, drawing Andromeda out of her thoughts.

"Speak of the Devil," Tonks mumbled. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms in defiance.

Sirius, on the other hand, seemed a lot more enthusiastic. "She came," he whispered gleefully. "Did she bring my son with her?"

Andromeda smiled warmly at him. Odd as Bellatrix really was, she and Dora had to ignore it for Sirius's sake. Even if she washis least favourite relative, she had raised his child and expected nothing in return. It was a strangely positive quality of hers, her devotion to her family. _One of her few_ , Andromeda thought grimly.

"Sirius!" a sharp voice sounded.

Out of the corner of her eye, Andromeda caught her daughter shuddering. "Come on, Dora, you're being melodramatic."

Sirius, who had not noticed the exchange, found himself standing before a woman he hadn't seen in years. Not that he'd ever regretted it, of course. She was a few inches taller than Andromeda, with a broader build and heavy-lidded violet eyes. Her expression was not peaceful and affectionate like her sister's, but authoritative, cunning, daunting.

He, however, didn't notice any of that. His eyes were permanently fixated on a small boy beside her, a boy with a curious expression and a mischievous gleam in his eye.

 _His boy_.

Sirius forced himself to look away, lest he scare his son, and greeted Bellatrix as warmly as he could. "It's been a long time," he said.

"Of course it has," she replied with an accusatory tone. "You left fifteen years ago and never so much as looked back."

Sirius's smile fell slightly, but he didn't pay her any mind. "You must be Aries." He turned his head to the child. His child. Marlene's child. "It's great to see you."

Aries surveyed him carefully. The suspicious look in his eye pained Sirius, but he couldn't bring himself to feel truly offended. After all, what did the boy know about him that could make him feel at ease? To him, his father was a convict, a ragged wizard with the eyes of a madman, a man who was only showing up for the first time in eleven years. It would be a miracle if he cared to meet him at all, Sirius thought.

"You're my father?"

Sirius marvelled at how much Aries resembled himself as a child, from the prominent aristocratic Black features to the glint in his eye, to the self-assured tone of voice, as if he _knew_ he was capable of handling everything life chose to throw at him.

"I am," he confessed with a friendly smile. He held out his hand. "Come, why don't I show you around, then we can sit down and you'll tell me all about what you've been up to while I was away."

He took the boy by his hand and motioned for Bellatrix to go into the kitchen, where her sister and niece were waiting with identical curious looks.

"Bellatrix," Andromeda greeted with a nod. "Where's Lyra?"

"At home, she's got lessons today. I promised her I'd introduce her to Sirius too though."

Andromeda smiled at the interactions between father and son, who seemed to be having an animated discussion by the kitchen counter.

"Now that you're free…" Aries began slowly, after the formalities were out of the way. "What does that mean for me? Am I going to live with you? And Aunt Bella says people think I'm her son. What am I going to do when I go to Hogwarts? I mean, _someone_ is going to find out, sooner or later."

Sirius winced. Aries was barely eleven, how could they expect him to take a position on the Wizarding World's chessboard? It would traumatise him, putting on a mask for all of society from such a young age.

"I don't know… We'll have to talk about it."

Aries picked up on his father's concern and squared his shoulders. "We are Blacks," he said confidently. "We fear nothing, we answer to no one."

Sirius's grimace deepened. "Did you hear that from your aunt Bellatrix?" He did appreciate the boy's certainty and self-reliance, but he had reasons to believe Bellatrix's encouragement did not end there. He wouldn't want his son to lead a similar life to him – bitterly wondering why he could never live up to the expectations for a _real_ Black, a superior wizard, an unflinching Slytherin.

He shook his head. _Lies_ , he thought viciously. _It had all been a bunch of lies_. Reassurances to sate his wretched family's egos, their ill-founded convictions of superiority based on blood – the same thick red blood that ran through Weasleys and Longbottoms and every Muggle family.

But it wouldn't do to get lost in memories of what had been. _He_ was Lord Black now; there was no one else to take his place. He formed a smile, albeit with difficulty. "Don't you worry, son, we'll figure something out."

He wasn't particularly concerned about their secret being discovered – Aries had inherited the undeniably strong Black genes, he looked as much like Bellatrix as he did like Sirius. And pure-blood families did have a tendency to recycle names. Nevertheless, Aries didn't look like he could pass for Bellatrix's son. He was far too… human.

 _Maybe it's best to come clean,_ he thought. _To expose Dumbledore's lie and claim Aries as my son. Maybe it's safest._

He'd have to talk to his cousins. As much as he hated it, Bellatrix had a say in this too.

* * *

Harry was no stranger to fear. In fact, he had spent a great part of his life in fear – fear of his uncle, of Dudley, even of his schoolmates. What he was currently feeling, however, was an entirely different emotion. One that made his lungs freeze and his heart pound wildly in his chest. One he didn't ever want to feel again.

Two days ago, he had run away from Privet Drive in panic after what his relatives would often describe as a _freakish accident_. Although most of his memories of the day were unclear because of the distress and terror he had felt, he clearly remembered cooking breakfast when Uncle Vernon had advanced on him, spitting venomous words about his 'layabout father'. The flame on the stove quickly unfolded, engulfing almost the entire kitchen. Harry had felt dizzy and out of breath by the time the fire had finally died down, but he hadn't been scared of it. He knew, somehow, that he had caused it.

So he ran. Before Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia could react. He ran and ran and prayed they wouldn't find him. That no one would find him.

He had spent the night in a hollow tree in a forest not too far away, and avoided Little Whinging during the day, lest someone see him and bring him back home. Then his relatives would well and truly be furious.

But the time kept passing, and Harry knew he couldn't survive alone. He had nothing to eat, no spare clothes or money. He didn't even have water. He couldn't live on the streets, he knew that much. So what was there to do?

 _Maybe I can beg_ , he thought optimistically.

No, it was a stupid idea.

Would he be allowed to work in a restaurant or a café? He _did_ look young, but maybe they'd accept if they paid him less. Maybe he'd even make friends there! Dudley wouldn't be there to chase them away. He shook his head at himself; he needed a real plan if he intended to survive.

The worry started building up in his chest, eating away at him. He felt terrible, but he'd never admit he may have been better off at home with his aunt and uncle. He could only imagine their smug faces if he showed up at their doorstep.

So he walked. He walked for so long, his legs felt like they were going to fall off. The town he'd ended up in was entirely unfamiliar; it didn't look too unlike Little Whinging, in the sense that all the houses looked exactly identical, and that it was completely silent save for the faraway playground, but it seemed less wealthy somehow. Harry angrily kicked a small rock down the pavement. He was frustrated and alone, and now he was lost too.

Until he heard a voice directed at him.

"You there, young man!"

Harry froze. "Me?" He turned around to face a man, not older than forty, with dark hair and concerned brown eyes.

The man smiled softly. "Are you lost?"

Harry backed away, unsure whether he was in danger. He knew not to talk to strangers, obviously, but there was nowhere to run to in this unfamiliar town.

"I'm not going to hurt you," said the strange man. He smiled again. "What's your name?"

"James," Harry said quickly. Maybe a little too quickly, but the man didn't seem to notice. He narrowed his eyes slightly. "What's yours?"

"Joseph." He gave him a boyish grin. "My friends and colleagues all call me Joe."

"It was nice meeting you… sir." Harry made to run off, but the man caught him by the arm. He was beginning to feel positively frightened by now. Looking around, his heart sank when he realised there were few people around he could yell for help to.

"I can tell you're lost, James. You look like you haven't seen a good day in a while. Do you need help?" The man was staring at him intently. Harry struggled in his grip as a response.

"What do you want from me? I'll– I'll call the police."

The man – Joseph – smiled at him again, as if he were hiding something extremely amusing. Harry was beginning to find it quite infuriating. He let go of his arm and took a step back. "You've frozen over. At least let me buy you some tea, or a hot chocolate. Those clothes really can't be keeping you too warm."

It really was cold, and Harry hadn't eaten anything in the two days he'd been away from Privet Drive. That couldn't be too good for his overall health. Still, he wasn't about to trust the man. He could be anyone. His fear morphed into anger all of a sudden. "What is the matter with you?" he shouted. "What do you want?"

"I work in children's services," said the man, "and I want to know you're doing alright."

"I'm doing wonderfully," Harry said coolly, trying to ignore the fact that he'd just yelled at someone who claimed to have authority over him. The exhaustion he felt was finally catching up to him, and he desperately needed to get away from the Joseph man before he handed him back to the Dursleys. "I'm not lost, I'm just… I'm taking a walk."

"Do you live nearby?" the man asked kindly.

Harry was fairly certain he wasn't authorised to do this. Was he? He thought the authorities only intervened when someone called them.

"Not really, I guess."

"Well, James, there's something here I don't quite like. I'm not on duty right now, but I can ensure that you really are seen to by someone who is. Now what I'm doing here isn't entirely mandated, but I take my job seriously. So if you'll just let me ask you a few questions, I'll be on my way and you can continue your walk."

Harry could tell the man was mocking him. "What is it that you don't like, _sir_?"

The man raised an eyebrow questioningly. "For starters," he said, "that bruise on your neck." Harry blushed profusely, pulling his shirt up to cover it. It was too late. "I'm not too impressed by your clothes either, if you want me to be honest, they're by no means appropriate for this weather."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest defensively. _I still don't trust you_ , he thought to himself. He knew he was being petulant but he didn't care.

"And lastly, you look sick and filthy." He paused. "I'd quite like to have a talk with your parents."

"They're dead," Harry snapped.

"I'm sorry," said the man. "Who do you live with?"

Harry began walking again, he was in no mood to answer these questions. "How do I even know you're telling the truth? You could be a kidnapper for all I know."

Joseph chuckled softly. "You're right, I could be. I can prove to you that I'm being honest though. I have a membership badge you might like to see."

Harry shrugged. "If you ask me your questions, you'll leave me alone?" He couldn't deny that he was uncertain of the man. He hadn't done anything to him yet, but Harry was becoming paranoid now that he was all alone.

The man nodded with a smile. "Just come with me, if that's alright with you." He placed his hand on Harry's shoulder, and as the pain erupted, Harry jumped back. He noticed with increasing horror that Joseph's palms had caught fire.

The man was vigorously trying to put out the flames, grunting and growling in pain, while Harry stared on in shock. _What is it with you and fire?_ he thought angrily. For it _was_ his fault; it couldn't have been anything else that caused it.

He briefly considered running before Joseph could ask any questions. Questions he wouldn't be able to answer. But when the man looked back at him, there was only a sudden clarity in his eyes which Harry couldn't explain.

"God almighty," he whispered. "You're one of them. You're one of my brother's lot. There's no other explanation."

"I'm—," Harry was at a loss for words, he couldn't find a way to apologise, he couldn't make himself run. He was frozen in place, staring up at the stranger.

Joseph, on the other hand, was shaking his head, mumbling to himself. "You don't even know, do you? You probably don't… You're younger than he was when they came to take him..."

"What are you talking about?" Harry demanded.

"You don't happen to know magic, do you?"

"What—no, what are you talking about?"

The man grabbed him again and pulled him into the nearest café. "Come. I've got to tell my brother, you can't just go around setting people on fire until they find you."


End file.
